I know what it feels like to lose both parents. I know the heartbreak, the pain, the feeling of being lost, adrift. My own grief wells as I whisper, “My condolences on your loss. And to your brothers. And your sister.”
Damian’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth and his gaze flicks to me. Something slides behind his dark eyes, a sliver of pain. A glimpse at a deeper well of grief. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced with something harder. He puts down the cutlery and places his hands on either side of his plate.
“Markus is the only family I have left,” I say into the silence. For this frozen second, we’re both orphans, our parents gone. We both know what it feels like to only have our siblings.
“What happened to your parents?” he asks.
I think he already knows what I’m going to say, but I answer anyway. “Both are dead. Car accident.” I shake my head. “I hate that word. Accident means unexpected and unintentional. It wasn’t an accident. It was a man who chose to drive drunk. Who chose to kill them.”
He leans forward, his gaze intent, holding mine. “And you would have liked to see him pay.”
“I…” I swallow, seconds ticking past. I’ve never admitted this before, not out loud. But something about Damian’s expression, something about the fact that he understands what it feels like makes me say, “Yes. He got off with a slap on the wrist even though he’d been caught driving drunk before, more than once. My parents’ lives should have been worth…more.”
Still he doesn’t look away. “Did you want to see him suffer? See him dead?”
There’s something about Damian’s expression, the intensity, the genuine understanding, that pulls the truth from me. I hesitate, then go all in. “Yes. I wanted to see him suffer. See him dead. I still do.” For the first time since Mom and Dad died, I say it out loud, because somehow, I feel like I can, like Damian Russo will understand. Like he won’t judge me. And how crazy is that? Why should I care if a criminal judges me?
“Sometimes, I imagine terrible things happening to him.” I roll my suddenly dry lips inward, swipe my tongue across them. Then I tell him the worst part. “Sometimes, I imagine that I do terrible things to him.”
“Payback,” he says with a small smile.
“Payback,” I whisper. I can’t believe I told him this. I’ve never said this to anyone, not even Markus.
“I understand,” he says.
I nod. He understands. He does. I have no doubt that he wants to do terrible things to the man who shot his father.
What does it say about me that I get it, that I don’t think he’s wrong?
He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. Long, strong fingers. The backs of his hands decorated with tattoos that trail up his arms and disappear beneath his t-shirt. He looks just as good in casual clothes as he did in a suit. I have the crazy urge to trace the lines of those tattoos with the tip of my finger.
“What about your boyfriend?” he asks.
That question breaks the gossamer thread that joined us.
“I don’t have a boyfriend. No pets. No dog, or cat, or even a goldfish. Just an older brother who’s in over his head with the wrong man and managed to drag me into the center of his problems without any warning.”
I literally bite my tongue to stop me from talking since my tone has become anything but amiable. But I’m angry. For a second, I forgot that this man is holding me in a luxurious prison. For a second, I actually liked him, trusted him with my secrets. And then he brought me crashing back to reality. So I’m angry at myself. At him. I can’t let myself forget who this man in front of me is. My jailor. The man who holds my brother’s safety—hell, my brother’s life—in his hands.
“Do you know how my father died?” Damian asks. “You would have seen it in the papers, in the news.”
I lick my suddenly dry lips. “He was shot.”
“Two bullets. Hollow-points. They’re designed to expand on impact, to do as much damage as possible. One got him here.” He leans toward me and rests his fingers on the swell of my left breast, over my heart. My breath locks in my throat. “And one here.” He taps the tip of his index finger on the center of my forehead. I shiver.
“I was as close to him then as I am to you right now,” he says, his gaze locked on mine. “I can still feel my father’s blood, his brains, on my hands.”
I feel the color drain from my face. “That…that’s truly horrifying. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t care who Damian is, I wouldn’t wish a traumatic experience like that on my worst enemy.
“That day I made a promise. To myself, to my brothers. My sister. I promised that I would find the shooter.”
And make him suffer, he doesn’t say. But I hear it anyway, and I understand.
“I think you can help me, Alina,” he says.
His words take me by surprise. “You think I can help you?”